41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

C yril was in bed. With Mikael .

Despite her furious blinking and rubbing at the sleep in her eyes, the prince lying on his side in front of her never vanished. Neither did the searing ache in her head, or almost every other part of her body. Her hand had the most persistent, nasty throb too, and it was…bandaged?

Cyril didn’t know what the fuck happened, but she wasn’t wearing pants, and Mikael didn’t have a shirt on, and...

Oh.

Oh gods .

Cyril pushed herself upright in slow, measured movements and touched Mikael’s back. He uttered a soft groan and pressed his face into the pillow.

“Mika?” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder. “What…what happened last night? Did we…?”

The sleeping prince just made another not-committal noise.

Cyril sighed, looking around her room.

The drapes were half-open, but the light coming in from them was dim. Her sheets were fresh, if the light, clean scent of washing soap was to be believed. The hearth crackled gently across the room like it always did. Outside of a few half-eaten plates of food, nothing seemed out of place.

Then her eyes snagged on a dark green travel pack leaning beside her door—Bron’s bag.

Reality hit her like a flash flood.

“Cyr?” Mikael said sleepily, but Cyril couldn’t get in enough air to answer him.

Her chest heaved in short, fast bursts, struggling against the vise grip that panic had on her lungs.

Bron was dead.

Bron was fucking dead .

She saw his body with her own eyes.

Not just dead.

Murdered, mutilated, defiled .

Like he’d been sent out for slaughter.

She could smell the oily reek of death in that room, laced with an undercurrent of antiseptic.

And Dion, he…

A wave of lightheadedness swept in, taking the edges of Cyril’s vision with it, and she clutched at the sheets. Her entire body felt flush and she still couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Easy, Cyr.” Mikael’s hand brushed up her back. “Take a deep breath.”

It was too late for that.

Cyril’s stomach knotted, and a sickly feeling crept up her throat. She fought back the blankets and staggered to her bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. She sank to her knees in front of the toilet and voided the almost non-existent contents of her stomach in a couple of painful heaves.

When she was certain her body was done, Cyril leaned back against the cupboards. She pressed her palms to the cold floor tiles as she tried to catch her breath.

The door creaked open.

“Do you need anything?” Mikael asked as he leaned against the doorframe.

Cyril closed her eyes, taking a slow breath in and blowing it out.

“His bag,” she whispered. “Can you put it away? I…I can’t …”

Mikael swore and said something else, but his voice trailed away.

There was silence for a moment, then doors opening and closing, and then she heard Mikael walk back into the bathroom. When he sat down beside her, Cyril finally looked up at him.

His auburn hair was sleep-mussed and tousled, but she felt the exhaustion in his eyes. She was sure it hung heavy in her own too for how much they ached.

She settled her head on Mikael’s shoulder and asked, “He’s really…?”

“Yeah,” Mikael said quietly. “I’m so sorry, wrath.”

Cyril blew out a shaky breath.

She was living her worst nightmare.